


Found

by problematicuser69



Series: Found and Cherished [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anger, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Father/Son Incest, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Lack of Communication, M/M, Misunderstandings, Parent/Child Incest, Post DMC2, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 20:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18746104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematicuser69/pseuds/problematicuser69
Summary: During his time in Hell, Dante runs into someone he never thought he'd see again, and feelings buried deep down within him resurface again.





	Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morroripper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morroripper/gifts).



> This is the first commission I ever had and I must say, I'm glad I started with this. It's a nice ship and I really like this dynamic.  
> Be ready for the second part of this, it should come out soon!
> 
> You can also find me on twitter @dmcfuckytimes if you want to check out some other stuff.

Hell fells like home more than it should, but maybe that’s because it mirrors Dante’s state of mind quite well.

He kind of misses those days in which he didn’t give a damn, in which all he ever cared about was what flavour of pizza should he order that day – he always chose the same one in the end – in which he didn’t feel the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

His legacy sucks, being in Hell sucks even more but Dante can’t find the strength to care, not when there are so many demons to slay – and he has already slain so many that his body is completely covered in their blood and, surely, stench as well, but who cares when the entire place stinks like… well… hell.

 

It’s during one of the rare moments of pause that he senses something, or better _someone_.

It’s definitely a presence he knows – used to know – familiar and yet so distant, but it can’t be _him_. He disappeared – he _left_.

How can he be here? And alive?

How… _how dares he?_

 

Dante knows he should be more mature than this, he really does, but that still doesn’t stop his mind to be overtaken by anger. He was supposed to rest and yet his body feels weirdly refreshed as his muscles tense and Dante narrows his eyes – a sight that would make even the strongest of demons shake to its core.

In a flash he isn’t there anymore; his demonic blood allows him to move at a greater speed than humans, but that is not all: Dante is _furious_ , and that fury only pushes him further.

He can already feel the familiar sensation of his body changing and a rush of adrenaline spreads through every fibre of his being; this is what he needs now: strength, raw power.

Thanks to his wings, he can move faster, and the closer he gets, the more he can sense _his_ presence.

 

The thought that he might be wrong doesn’t even cross his mind.

There is no margin of error, and even if there is, who cares? Even if it’s just another demon and not him, wouldn’t the world be better if he kills it?

 

 

The impact is strong, but Dante manages to make the other fly a few feet before landing on the ground, clearly taken by surprise.

And here he is, scrambling to his feet like the pathetic whelp he is, the _Legendary Dark Knight Sparda_ , his father, the person Dante loathes more than anyone else.

How much it angers him, seeing him here of all places, and still alive. So, pops did just fuck off in hell like a coward, huh?

 

The thing that he hates the most, though, is that deep down he’s _glad_ that he’s fine, that he’s alive. He’s glad that he isn’t alone anymore… but he will never admit it.

 

He pushes those feelings aside by charging again, but this time Sparda is ready to take him.

He doesn’t seem to have his sword anymore – well, for obvious reasons – but this doesn’t mean that he’s not able to fight by other means.

His punches hurt like they never did – and it’s also true that, as many faults as he has a father, Sparda never actually _hit_ him, unless during those few times they sparred – but Dante’s rage only makes the healing process faster, and he hits back every time.

 

The bastard hasn’t even recognized him! Can’t he sense the familiar bond that ties them together?

He really doesn’t care at all, never had – that, Dante knows too well.

 

The more he cuts, the more Sparda regenerates, but it doesn’t matter: he needs this, needs it like he needs air to breathe. He needs to get this out of his system; for too long he’s kept everything inside, but not anymore: now he screams, demonic screeches that echo through the plains of Hell.

It doesn’t occur to him that this is the reason why Sparda would never think that this is his son: where is that small, sunny child, the one who smiled constantly, who was so human? This feral beast can’t be Dante, there’s no way it could be.

 

It’s when Dante manages to send Sparda to the ground again that he realizes: he’s stronger than him.

He doesn’t know if it’s because of the rage that is moving him or any other reason, but as hard as his father can hit him, Dante will always hit harder.

“Maybe it’s because he’s going easy on you”, a small, child-like voice whispers to him, but Dante pushes that thought aside and he pins one of his father’s wrist to the ground with a flash or red energy, red energy that solidifies into a red needle that Dante pushes as down as he can, making sure that Sparda won’t be able to free himself.

 

 

This demon is certainly strong, this is what Sparda is thinking.

He has no idea about what this is – he never encountered anything similar – but he still can’t quite shake off a certain sense of familiarity, though he doesn’t understand where this feeling might come from.

 

Somehow he knew his life was going to end this way, in combat. He’s a demon, and thus he’ll face the death of a demon; it’s the natural course of life, how things should be.

And maybe, deep down, he wants this. He lost everything, he lost his family. It doesn’t matter if he dies now.

When he sees the demon raising his claws, ready to strike again, he only closes his eyes, bracing himself for the impact, knowing that this will be the last thing he will feel.

 

Pain never comes.

 

It’s only when Sparda feels something wet falling on his cheek that he risks opening one eye, and the sight in front of him makes him feel like someone gutted him.

This cannot be… it cannot be real.

 

He looks older, far older than he remembers, but he can’t mistake that white unruly hair, those eyes.

This is Dante. This is Dante and he looks so angry; he’s screaming at him and it’s so vehement that Sparda can barely understand half of the things he’s saying. That wet sensation from before came from Dante’s tears; his son is there, in Hell with him, and he’s crying and yelling, and Sparda can only stare in silence, surprise evident on his face: he thought they were all dead and yet… Dante’s here.

 

This feels too good to be true; could this be a trick from a demon?

 

 

Dante is so busy yelling that he doesn’t even notice Sparda’s reaction even though his eyes are set on him.

 

He just keeps screaming and screaming, finally saying out loud all the things he had to keep inside for so long.

Why did he leave? Everything that happened to them is his fault! If he was there, mom would still be alive, and instead, what did Dante get? A dead mother and brother, and the one who could’ve prevented this is still alive and well.

But he never cared, didn’t he? Of course he didn’t.

 

He always had eyes only for Vergil. Never spared him but a glance.

Why? Was he no deserving of receiving attention?

 

“Dante…”

Sparda’s voice is but a whisper and his name sounds so weird – so foreign – on his lips, and yet it sparks something inside Dante. As to rub salt in the wound, Sparda stretches his free hand towards him, caressing his cheek, cleaning the tears that won’t stop falling from the corner of his eyes.

He shouldn’t care about the pained gaze in his father’s eyes, he shouldn’t think about how soft his voice sounded; he shouldn’t fall for it.

 

“ _Why, dad? Why didn’t you love me?_ ”

 

He should just get this over with and strike him, but as much as he hates admitting it, he doesn’t have the strength to do so, not now that he discovered that he’s not alone anymore.

He knows that deep down this is because Sparda will have to give him attention now, and this thought only disgusts him further: he shouldn’t think about all the family tragedies he had to endure in this way.

 

“I…”

Maybe for the first time in his life, Dante is seeing Sparda hesitating. It’s such a different spectacle from what he remembers – those few memories of his father he still keeps, the ones that he always look back to with nostalgic eyes.

“I never _not_ loved you, Dante”, Sparda finally manages to say, making Dante want to laugh and so he does, an empty and bitter laugh.

“You and I remember pretty differently, _old man_ ”, he says, poison spouting at those last words.

 

He never thought that one day he would’ve gotten this occasion, but he doesn’t want to let it escape.

Since his childhood he suffered so much because of his father, because of how much he didn’t care for him. Even as mom – the only one in the family who ever cared for him and she’s dead, she’s _dead_ – always told him that it was not true, that of course father loved him, he never believed her, and why do her words echo now in his head? That voice… he thought he had forgotten how she even sounded like.

 

“Then why were you always with Vergil? Was I too human for your tastes?”.

“Yes”.

That simple word feels like a slap to Dante’s face.

Did he just…

 

“I… it is true, Dante: I might have not given you the love you deserved”, Sparda continues, and Dante wants so hard not to notice how pained his voice sounds, but he does anyway. He grits his teeth trying to ignore any feeling of pity that is bubbling inside of him; no, he mustn’t hesitate or his father might take advantage of that.

“But there truth is: I always loved you. I… I was at a loss, with you”.

And what does this mean now?

“With Eva I didn’t have problems, but with you… I never knew how to deal with you”, he shakes his head, “I didn’t want to taint your humanity”.

 

“Well, good news _pops_ : it got tainted anyway!”, Dante exclaims, but now he sounds more tired, because as much as he doesn’t want to listen to him, to think about what he said, the thought of his father actually loving him makes him feel so… soft? Is this the right word? Yes, it must be that, like the way Sparda – despite having still only one hand free – pulls him down into a hug.

“I know, and I apologize for that”, he mutters and his words hurt more than a slap could ever do. Dante thought he’d never get to hear this, but damn, Sparda apologized so easily that Dante can’t find it in himself not to melt at those words.

 

He must look so small with his trembling human body over Sparda’s, and he seems even smaller when he whispers:

“I thought I was alone”.

“I thought so too… If I knew you survived I would’ve--”

“ _Shut up_ ”.

He doesn’t want to hear this now. Why does father have to ruin the moment like this?

Thankfully Sparda seems to understand and stays silent, brushing Dante’s hair and letting him sort his emotions. The red needle that was blocking his hand has long vanished, so Sparda can now also put an arm around Dante’s shoulders; his motions are a bit awkward – this isn’t something he’s used to – but Dante still appreciates the attempt. He curses his weakness, but now that he has Sparda’s attention, he doesn’t want to lose it.

 

 

“Why did you leave?”

A sigh leaves Sparda’s mouth at those words. He knew this question was coming and frankly, he doesn’t know how to respond to it. He will try for his son’s sake, though; he deserves this much.

“I thought it would be best if I left the scene. I knew Mundus was seeking revenge and I thought, foolishly so, that he would’ve left you alone without me around. I tampered with your world so much already, and I believed that this was the right thing to do…”

… But instead it was a fatal mistake, but he doesn’t need to say it: they both know it.

 

“You seem unconvinced”, Sparda states, seeing his son’s face, but before Dante can even say anything, he takes his face between his hands and he gently drags him closer, pressing his lips to his forehead.

Maybe it’s because it’s been a really long time since he last felt this kind of contact – or maybe because this is finally happening – Dante exhales and shivers; this sensation has become so foreign to him – he remembers mom doing it so often, but that’s about it.

 

 

“Would you allow me the chance to prove my words?”.

Sparda is clearly asking for permission, and Dante ponders for a moment if he really deserves it. Oh hell, even if he doesn’t, he’s not going to throw away this precious occasion.

He nods then, and the speed with which Sparda manages to get up on his feet, still keeping Dante in his arms, doesn’t surprise him in the slightest – he’s still the Legendary Dark Knight after all.

 

A strange sense of melancholy takes over him; he remembers something, or at least he thinks it’s a memory: his father had carried him in this exact same way before already. Dante can almost picture himself, his body much smaller as he clung onto Sparda with whatever strength he could muster in his drowsy state.

 

It felt the exact same way it feels now, but this time Dante will make sure to keep his father for himself.

Now that he has found him, he won’t let him leave again.


End file.
